


Your Crown Means Nothing In Here

by Sammichplease



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley Being an Asshole, Dungeon, Gen, Insanity, Plotless, Sass, Silence, Without a Background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:18:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sammichplease/pseuds/Sammichplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn't a clock, is there? No, there can't be... The atrocious ticking must be in my head. Or, he is the cause. Yes, he must be the cause. The smirk on his face certainly suggests as much...</p><p>God help me escape soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Me Break The Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SookMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SookMonster/gifts).



> Welcome, kiddies to my insanity. Words do it little justice, but uh- enjoy?

"Hello, love."  


"Hello."  


Minutes passed.  


"...Not too talkative, now, are we?"  


"..."  


"Well, good. I believe I would enjoy some piece and quiet."  


Staring at the dull cement floor with glazed eyes, my sewn lips twisted into a bitter smirk. It did not go unnoticed.  


"What?" He asked with a smug drawl to the word. When my blurred vision flicked over, I saw his face portrayed no emotion.  


I licked my lips, my tongue stuck to the cracked skin for a moment. I spoke with an appalling tenderness that I mentally kicked myself for. "We both know the quiet offers no peace."  


"And how would you know that?" His painfully gritted voice was borderline animalistic and it was downright unnerving how uncomfortable it made me. He spoke fluently and quickly, and I had no problem with that. It only encouraged me to take my time planning out each thought as the fog surrounding my head slowly dissipated into a sheet before my eyes.  


"Silence," The word pleased me, how it slid off my thick tongue and bounced from the indifferent walls of the room we were both being held in. "It encourages thoughts."  


It annoyed him, how I would not look him in the eye. I spoke minimally, leaving him in a state of confusion that someone as impatient as he would only come to loathe with such a passion I could not help but envy. Emotion acts as a switch or a button, some might say. The measure of time it takes for one small action to flip such a switch has always amazed me to the point of sick admiration.  


"Yes, go on." His growl was urgent, and I could feel his gaze. It did not bore, for only a being with care, with heart, with soul, could create such an intensity. His had been torn out, his eyes are hollow.  


I snapped my head towards him in a manner that seemed almost disturbing, and sat up (had I been crouching-yes, I suppose I have) in the chair I was chained to. My eyes were wide and I smiled one of an insane man's as I spit words from my mouth in an act of I'm-not-sure-what. "Thoughts do not whisper, Crowley. They shriek into your eardrums and embed themselves into the tissue of your brain. They howl a jarring lullaby over and over again in this God-forsaken silence until your skull is rattling and all you feel is..."  


I stopped my pathetic rambling, at least pathetic to my audience. I glued my eyes to the cement again and gave a small twitch of my lips. "Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that, yet."  


That last word caught his intrigue, pulling him from his cold state of bored silence. "Yet? Do you think my soul will just pop from nowhere and suddenly fill me with complete understanding of your pathetic rambling?"  


His words do not faze me, in fact, every sentence that falls from his bastardized lips only entertains me. We could be here awhile, I only wish to test the limits of his character, see how far I can venture in and out of his mind before he wants to kill me. Probably why I ended up here in the first place.  


"No, I suppose not." I gave him a moment of victory, not that he needs any more. "But with all that human blood the boys are pumping into you, I don't doubt you've felt it."  


"What, a soul?" He scoffs lazily from his chair.  


I joined him, "The thoughts."  


An eyebrow cocked in sarcasm-smeared doubt. I smiled and whispered, a bit more exasperatedly than neccesary, " _The silence_."  


A very dramatic eyeroll met my words. Foolishness and my love for hearing myself talk took over, and I half mumbled to myself as he tried to detach himself from the conversation(was it, though?).  


"With every drop of human blood twining with the clotted, dark, poison you have running through your vessel, you feel the burning agony that is emotion pulling at the marrow in your bones, ripping at muscle tissue, and shooting up winding veins straight to your brain. Compressing and inflating within you, stretching the empty-"  


"Oh will you just _shut up_ already?"  
Memories of home came to mind, and I turned to give a childish glare at the demon, pouting my lip in silent fury. He is right, but I will direct all anger I have at myself towards him until I am either let free or killed. He doesn't seem to mind, judging by the way my anger reflects off of his face and directly back at me. I almost dropped my glare, for I felt as though I was looking into a mirror. Not of appearance, but of mind.  


My face softened into a smile. His did too, but built from puzzlement. He decided to switch to an annoyed sneer, but I saw.  


I looked back down to the cement, soaking up the strange aura of the room. It glistened and at the same time seemed foggy. I planned to sing a medley of my favorite songs until he either threatened to peel off my skin and shove it down my throat or sing along.  


I think I'm gonna like it here.


	2. It's The Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> STILL in this infernal place. I would be reduced to song to rid myself of this silence, had I not had company. Watching him suffer seems to keep me satisfied.   
> Lord knows I've already lost it.

“Psst.”

His dark eyes remained set on the far wall.

_“Psst.”_

_“What?”_ He hissed, jerking his head toward me with a furious glare, nearly void of compassion. _Nearly._

I had become much more talkative in the time we've spent in the dungeon, much to his dismay. Smirking, I relished the pleasure of gaining his attention for the moment. “Do you have a preference in color?” I articulated in all innocence.

“What kind of idiotic question is that?” He spat, as if he had much more important subjects to think about as he sat handcuffed to a chair in desolation.

Innocence burned to snide, matching his words. My eyes rolled around the dim place, feigning inspection. “You and I don’t seem to be in any sort of hurry at the moment so I am making conversation, mind you.”

“Why on earth would I ever want to make small talk with a puny creature such as you?” Stones seemed to roll off of his sour tongue, words chafed by the broken glass coating his throat. I was tempted to take a knife to cut out his tongue, grinning as I'd listen to his slick curses slur into a gurgling roar. I would make sure the last flavor he'd taste was that of his own blood.

“You are a demon. Well, half of one at the most. The essence of creatures like you were stolen and rewritten to perform like cunningless machines. Merely shadows of beings that trample the earth above the home your kind so desperately sprints to escape at any opportunity. The first was molded from petulant jealousy, and the last will not be any stronger than the one before it. A 'puny creature' such as I is literally above your kind.” My eyes shone with darkness as my voice urged on, only to come to an abrupt stop. Crowley’s entire being oozed boredom, save his eyes. Silent hatred lit them aflame.

Vain in its purest form bounced from the walls of the stuffy room.“Humans are puny, powerless, hairless apes. They are nothing. We could commit genocides, kill a human with a flick of the wrist. Demons could rule the world-”

“But have they?” The corners of my lips curved up to dig into my cheeks in a victorious smirk, appearing as though my face had split in half. “Because I have seen your attempts, and apparently all it takes is a couple of the _hairless apes_ to cut all of your plans short and put you in a timeout to slowly melt into one of them. I see your powerful demons now, Crowley. They fall to the knees of another ready to bind ferociousity around their eyes and run into a battle with ignorance on their sle-”

“Enough!” His voice strained with the bellow that rang in the room like a gunshot in a military tank.

I slowly licked my lips, chapped from the spitting rant I had lost myself to. Leaning forward in my chains, I stoned my gaze on the huffing demon. His chest rose and fell unevenly, frustrated that he could not kill me. Behind the murderous glimmer, I sensed a startlement. As if Crowley were bewildered by his own sudden outburst. I recognized a weakness, and tucked the memory in the back of my mind for later use.

“Why are you defending them, anyway? What do you know of being human?” I smirked at his curiosity, a raw aspect of the human trait.

“I know plenty. Including your slow transition and the hardships that come with it.”

“It’s a dreadful thing.” Is all he could muster up.

“I know of the good, too.” He raised an eyebrow in doubt. “Such as sex,” I had earned a thoughtful nod. “And a preference in color.” Lips quirking up a bit, I continued. “What is yours?”

There was a long pause as I continued to glower at him, urging an answer.

“Orange.” He admitted in a low grumble.

I cocked my head at the surprising happiness the color coherently held. “Interesting.”

_“Shut up.”_ He spat.

I twisted my mouth into a cruel smile and forced a choppy and unfamiliar laugh from my dry throat, glad for the fact he was utterly useless. I didn’t spare a moment to think of what would happen when he was unchained. I simply did not care. Not anymore.


	3. Who Am I To You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can feel myself rotting. It seems my body has finally caught up with the festering of my mind. If only it would go faster... and begin with my eyes. If I have to take one more glance at my cellmate I might scrape at my skin until I lose a limb to distract myself.  
> Why does he remain mute?  
> He used to be so talkative.

With my eyes closed, I was aware of everything around me. I felt the greasy strands of hair glide against the shell of my ear and my hot breath put the hair above my lip on end. My eyes must be bloodshot, by now. There was a heat creeping from under them whenever my eyelids sealed themselves, as if my body didn't want me to sleep. My brain seemed to warn me of the fire that consumed me in my dreams with the small notion. Except the burn in my eyes seemed acidic, made by a careful man's hands and almost carelessely artificial. The wild licks of flame gave me all of their attention, overwhelming me with a scalding welcome. I almost missed them.

How many days had it been? How many years? I asked myself these useless questions born from fear, wondering if my cellmate asked himself the same. He must. I hated his casualty, his experience. I fed from weakness, and the creature I shared the room with portrayed none. Every moment I loathed him more. "Staring at me will not quicken my death, you know."

His rumbling drawl echoed around the room, much to his satisfaction, it seemed. I suppose I had been staring- glaring- actually. I could not properly see him and could only imagine the expression he was wearing. I knew his face too well in the light, and I feared the image would sear itself into my brain. "It doesn't hurt to try." I hissed back, blinking slowly to relish the acid in my eyes to temporarily rid my vision of his vessel's face.

"Suit yourself." He sighed. I could hear his chains shift and roll against themselves and the fabric of his clothing as he shifted to apparently seat himself into a better posture to be stared down. I was not done talking to him. I had begun a game with myself. Hold the silence for as long as I can, bear the hysterical screaming inside of my head- may it be mine or another's- until words are spoken. His words. Then the fun begins.

I found my fingers curled and digging into my thighs. Slowly, they twitched and shook until I forced feeling back into them. I twisted my wrists under my chains, now rattling with the movement, so my cracked palms were facing the ceiling. For the action I had to take my gaze from where Crowley was seated to the farthest wall from me, glazing my eyes over to focus on where my hands might be. 

Once I was pleased with the amount of bloodflow to my hands I began gently tapping at the chains with the fingernail of my first finger, searching for a place that would sound the loudest. A loud 'tink' sound filled the room and the corners of my lips lifted into a smile of sorts. 

I began a slow beat. It sounded like the delicate tapping of expensive champagne glasses held to a toast by daintily gloved fingers belonging to unhealthily calm and extravagant people. Yet, it also held the emptiness of an abandoned scrap of rusting pipe balancing on the ground to bend with the wind of a junk yard setting to tap against another piece of scrap metal. Gentle, albeit void of emotion. 

My cellmate, much to my surprise, remained silent. I did hear the rustle of fabric as he shifted the slightest bit, as if on edge. I could feel a hollow annoyance radiate from him and the pressure of a hateful and seeking stare. The tapping continued as I kept track of my breathing, trying to keep myself from twitching and losing my sanity at the unsettling calm the beat held. Deliberate as the steady dripping of water from a broken showerhead. 

My own voice roared in my mind, howling for me to cease. I spit at it. Grimacing, I spit out a few lyrics like blood from my teeth, keeping my vocal cords straining with the high pitch and warbling like I had once heard. "Who are you? Who am I to you?"

My stomach knotted at the sweet sound that escaped my wretched lips. Crowley relaxed and his loatheful stare lifted, either of humour or of absolute confusion. I continued, staring at the wall, which seemingly crept closer as my sickening voice rang in the room, threatening to crush me if I kept up my song. "I am the antichrist to you."

"Fallen from the sky with grace, into your arms race." My finger kept the beat with my song as my other hand dug deeper into my thigh. The sharp pain I felt distracted me from the true meaning of my actions.

"Lucid lovers, me and you." I felt hot blood run down my thigh and drip to the ground in silence, of either respect or a mockery of my song. I wish it would fall with sound, so my voice could be accompanied with a noise to demonstrate its insignificance to the world.

"A deal of matchless value. I was always quick to admit defeat. Empty statements of bones and meat." I tasted bile on my tongue. I was to rue to moment I ever opened my mouth, and that is something I would have never thought possible.

"And my heart, it shook with fear. I'm a coward behind a shield and spear. Take this sword and throw it far. Let it shine under the morning star." The cell was gone by now. I was trapped in my mind as the room dissipated from my thoughts, left with my voice and the instruments I strummed in my head. Bile left my throat and was replaced with a guilt I did not understand. 

"Who are you? Who am I to you? I am the antichrist to you. Fallen from the sky with grace. Into your arms, race." Fear, an unfamiliar feeling, overwhelmed me. It chilled my skin, and the blood running down my thigh and drying under my fingernails turned to ice. 

"One for my heart and two for show. Three tears for all the souls below. One day we made them into figurines." Tears would have soaked my eyes but I couldn't remember how to bring them, not that I wanted to. My voice seemed to be getting louder as if I was leaned over and shouting into my own ears.

"Burned them all with all my favorite things." Violin bows scraped against the thin strings of their selective instruments into a melody that whined in my ears with the tapping of keys that were heard over the tapping of my finger.

"Who are you? Who am I to you? I am the antichrist to you. Fallen from the sky with grace, into your arms, race." I repeated, shaking with each wave of unexplained guilt each sound gave me. I didn't know what I'd done wrong, only that I had- indeed- done something. I wanted- needed to repeat the chords in an attempt to remember what I had once done. 

"Who are you? Who am I to you?" A crescendo of instruments bellowed in my head, growing louder with each somber word. They beat together with my heart thumping in my chest. Accusation rang in the plucked strings, along with a twinkling forgiveness. I felt like wretching at the thought. 

"I am the antichrist to you. Fallen from the sky with grace." What had I done? Why had I sung? I had whispered the last chord, nearly hissing. "Into your arms, race." 

The instruments blaring in my head had vanished, and I was in the cold wet dungeon once more. My thigh stung, and I welcomed it. The guilt that had been ramming itself against my ribcage was gone, and the blood that was once freezing my skin was warm and flowing. I released the grip on my thigh and realized my finger had stopped its rhythmic tap against my chains long ago. 

I bristled, hearing Crowley draw out a long breath. I had forgotten about him, a feeling I would have welcomed if I had not just burst into song. My plan had gone horribly wrong, and he stayed silent the entire performance. I sang the song I knew. I didn't know it would manipulate me like it would, or else I would have never learned it. Although, I do not quite remember where I'd learned it. 

I wanted Crowley to say something, anything. A joke, insult, death threat, anything. I dragged my glare back to him, watching- or listening- rather. 

He sniffed. My eyes narrowed. It sounded completely incidental, but quiet. As if he had something to hide. I licked my lips, shifted in my seat, and started the game again.


	4. Twisted Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This game has become numbingly familiar and utterly nauseating. But once my doors are finally opened I am given two more playthings as clear as buffed glass and just as satisfyingly fragile. How I look forward to shattering them one heavy flick at a time._

My tongue is rough. This time they left the lights off. It's not uncommon, and I welcome the darkness. I envy it's ability to remain silent and still. Some people could say the darkness is smug; that it has grin borne from snide. I disagree. Once you start to hear its mocking laughter, the idea of insanity begins to creep in. It is only once the laughter dies that you have lost the routine feeling of pride, or shame, and insanity is inevitable.

I've been taking time in the dark to memorize my mouth. Sliding my tongue across the ridges of each of my teeth. The taste in my mouth is of stale blood, familiar but never initially welcome. I have an overbite; my tongue is forced to curl in the shrunken space of its bacterial prison. My bottom jaw is set just slightly to the left, causing the right side of my tongue to constantly jab itself into my right canine tooth. The roof of my mouth is dry and I can hear my tongue drag itself against it. It is rough. Each taste bud is dragged independently, they are like blunt pencil tips. 

"Are you planning on speaking during the remainder of our stay?" I articulated with little difficulty, despite my tongue. It threw itself about like a beached shark; sluggish and disadvantaged, but determined. Water might be a necessity soon.

"What are you?" Rumbled my cellmate. I was pleased he still proved to exist outside of my imagination, but that was the extent of any form of happiness having to do with this being. 

"If I tell you, will you kill me?" I almost asked. Reassurance of my death and a reminder of how stupid the question was did not seem like a pleasurable waste of time on my part. Instead a slow chuckle hummed in my throat.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Seemed like a much more infuriating question to pluck from the recesses of my mind. It stands.

An ill-tempered scoff came instinctively on his behalf. "I'm simply passing the time. The silence was much more preferable until you decided to burst into song in the absence of my voice."

"What can I say? I am a person of music." Playful sounds nearly flirtatious; a tone rarely used because of that abhorrent misinterpretation.

"Given the Winchester's history; I would have guessed you were some low-class demon who managed to twist their knickers... But I believe I heard a bit of sentiment in your voice, and now I'm curious." His 'curiosity' was predatory and evidence of a true observer. One who gets what they want my manipulating the emotion of others. The key is to not have emotion.

"Every creature has feelings, Crowley. I'm not particularly sure where mine went, but I am glad you decided to point out what a talented actress I am, to mimick a singer's tune so precisely it almost seems as if I was feeling what they were." Vague entertainment sparked in my words. Sarcasm came without saying, and Crowley's annoyance slowly filling the room made the conversation that much more satisfying.

I knew he wouldn't justify any more of my remarks with a response. We both knew our bickering would be to no avail. I decided to give him some closure for my random outburst before he jumped to any more disgusting conclusions. "I like to sing."

I measured the seconds it took him to respond to calculate how big a world of questions my one sliver of information opened up for him, and how interested he was in to explore and taste each one. Five seconds could mean he has lost himself through the door into the world. Five seconds means there is weakness to this demon.

Ten seconds. Too long for a sharp creature such as my cellmate to linger in thought. He's too insufferably impatient. His time verges on the sardonic implication that my remark was not simple, rather incredibly stupid. I didn't take it to heart. Whatever fraction of the muscle remained was kept completely indifferent. 

“You-” 

The metal door unlatched before he could finish, and light streamed into the room. Now I could see him. He screwed up his face at the bright intrusion, and I couldn’t help but blink back as well. "Hello, boys."

Our captors, well fed and restless, stood in the doorway. The tall one's face was twisted in nerves, practically secreting a sort of empathetic anxiety that made my cold heart shriek and burn. The shorter one wore a wistful mask and my fingers itched to tear it off and expose his naked pain. Their emotions came off in waves, and it became clear to me that they had never experienced the kind of bone-shredding agony that sucked 'good nature' to an ashen husk.

But even I had to consider the great gap of a broken trust between them. One borne from a weeping heart, it baffled and churned my laughter in its histrionic naivety simply because they allowed themselves to lick at trust's sweet lie.

So laughter croaked out of me like dust and a sneer cracked my lips. The short one glared but both of their sickening waves of fervor choked my noise. "There's no trace of you anywhere in the country," Started the tall one, softly, tentative. I noticed how cold my toes were. "But you pass all the tests." Finished the short one. My cold stare flicked to him, and became colder. He spoke with the confidence of a man who bathes in self hatred but drinks the tears of those who weep for his woes. My sneer faded and my jaw fell open, eager to rip his throat and suck back each drop. I noticed how fast my heart was beating.

"You mean that thing in the corner, drooling over Dean?" My cellmate, ever the ignorant romantic, never to cease functioning from his own anger. The tall one looks at him, but the short one glares at me. He wants to die, but does not want to give up. His miracle is a bottomless pit; to step and fall into irreversible circumstances. 

"We couldn't find her in any of Bobby's books. She's got to be human." The tall one glances at me and then looks at Crowley. He wants to give up, but not die. His life is a bottomless pit, and he wants to step out. His miracle burnt out with his spirit long ago, death would be merciful to this caged soul. My fingers scratched at my crusted thighs, eager to shred him so fast his skin would bubble and catch flame like the Hellfire he was crafted in.

"Sammy, there is no way that thing is human. Look at it!" Pause, scritch, scritch, scritch. "Can it even speak?" 

"I can confirm she does speak. Hasn't shut up since you chained her down here." Mumbles and sputtering, scritch scritch scritch. The tall one looks surprised. They all see my fingers, scritch scritch scritch. My irritated skin is screeching to my brain but my fingers still hunger for the warm fluid.

"Sam,"

"Yeah." And he steps like he thinks he's stepping across thin ice. My shoulders tense and my jaw opens wider and my fingers still scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchsritchscri- his hands envelope mine in heat, warmer than my flaming blood. His face is far but his eyes are watching my every twitch as he slowly pulls my hands from my bleeding thighs. My stomach kicks and I am in awe and repulsed by this being and his foreign spirit.

I bowed my head and looked through my eyebrows at this man, curling my skin to a smirk. "Lucifer himself must have sculpted you with the flames from his own nimble tongue." I whispered unto him. He squeezed my fingers so hard the bones cracked against one another and then stood with a sudden air of crumbling fragility, but a light of anger flickered within him and I could only be jealous of his unwilling passion.

"What did she say?" The small one asked and the large one walked straight past him without a word. My immortal companion had heard me and his snide slithered into his still expression, glad to shade his dim understanding. 

As the fire left the room I could hear the hiss of his steps blackening the ground on a different plane, and I shouted after him in a ringing song, "Perched upon his Judas Cradle! Kissed by the Iron Maiden! Burned to ash, and then reborn! Satan's phoenix, are you not? **Do you not look upon _me_ with scorn?** " My voice had begun to gain some of its tune in the past months of my being here and held an applicable amount of sardonicy for the mood. 

Crowley was silent during my lyrics. He likes these people, or simply holds them in a higher regard. As I looked into his dark eyes I saw a defense raised against my gaze and as the little one strode forward to gag me, I was genuinely surprised to find Crowley actually held a sentimentality towards the Fire and at least a higher regard for the Grump. " _You're no human_ ," He spat into my face. " _Even if you were once, there's no humanity left in you anymore_." 

I bared my teeth at him in sick mockery and frustration at the offending cloth in my mouth, silencing my only weapon. Later I will warn him not to be so foolishly caring, for there is no humanity; only greed.


	5. Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everyone's desperate, so days turn to years. People change over years, so please let me out._

“Will they kill me?” I inquire, curious about my smaller captor’s feelings towards me. They’ve left me here to waste away still, so I suppose Death’s ashen lips will remain distant from my own as long as the boys keep their hearts. But a second opinion from an experienced inmate won’t hurt.

“If you keep mouthing off; eventually. Those two may act like they’re heroes, but I’ve seen them kill in cold blood. Next time they come down it will probably be with a murderous intent.” 

It is getting rather boring down here. Maybe if I find a way to break my wrists I can undo the rope and scratch my chest until I bleed out. Do I want to die in a sulfur-stinking dungeon with a cross crossroads demon beside me and two frustrated children upstairs? 

“They don’t give the impression of heroes. They give the impression of two shredded souls, lost in a labyrinth of thorns with only the skin of the other to cling to. I’m sure at one point they fought for the sake of strangers, believing underneath lie innocence. After a lifetime of losing those to the thorny maze, however, all the two know is the face of the other, since the soul is obviously different.”

“Your romance bores and nauseates me at the same time. Are you some kind of sociopathic writer? Are you human at all?” I imagined him rolling his eyes.

Smirking, I replied smugly.“You heard the short one. He says I am not human. To humanity I am not human. But to the Heavens and science I have all the qualities of a human being, just as I have every weakness one would have.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, every physical attribute. You don’t have the same pain tolerance, obviously. Any other human would find scratching their skin to the point of drawing blood rather.. _unpleasant_.”

“It brings agony, yes.” I nodded. The conversation ended but I kept myself preoccupied. I’d like to play a game with the boys, perhaps exercise a part of my mind I haven’t for a very long time. My mind left the dungeon momentarily to scheme and forget myself. 

A breath in, a breath out. Before the two left they tied my hands palms-out behind the chair to keep from harming myself. I ran my thumbs over the pad of each finger, relinquishing all of my darkness to their gentle glide. The transition is truly a spectacle of the mind. A breath in, a breath out. My shoulders roll in their sockets and each crack fills the empty room. My spine shifted under my skin as I strain my muscles to crack each bone, like oiling an old machine. 

Everything the world should have taught me flows through my mind like an iridescent secret, blocking out common sense with glowing attention I was told to want and appreciate. Yes, everything is fitting perfectly together as I let go of reality and allow my only friend to be my greatest fear. The darkness I danced in and grinned with has left me to bathe in cowardly light of this superficial character I submerge myself in. The only obligation I have to the darkness is to never forget who I am. Once I forget I am no longer an actress playing a role but a fool who is truly lost in the world. 

So when the dungeon doors open I notice the harsh groan and bang echoing down their hallway and I wince. I never liked loud noises. When the short one steps into the room I notice the silence following each step and the sickness in his smirk. My cellmate was right.

The knife in his hand glints in the new light and I gasp at its intent. He tries not to care. I grit my teeth and furrow my brow. Never forget. Why does this man want to hurt me?? Never forget. What did I do wrong?? “P-please don’t kill me!”

But he keeps stepping forward, he has to. He has to look into my eyes if he’s going to stab me. The tall one is confused and looks in pain. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me? Please!” I beg him. Tears form in my eyes as I look straight at him in pure terror. Never forget. 

My body fills with a new warmth. Hot tears run down my face and now he is a foot away, standing over my pathetic self, which is straining to be free and shifting uncomfortably in its chains. “Please let me go, I-I don’t know what you want from me but I can give it to you! Anything!” I whimper and shake, gulping clumsily and leaning forward. He knows it’s a facade, but he stops anyway. 

The man throws the knife down, obviously flustered at my change in character. I know he knows but he is clinging to the thread of hope that there might be a chance. A chance that he doesn’t have to kill an innocent soul. “God dammit!” He roars, his face red. He grips my pale, bony shoulders and faces my slobbering pathetic self. “Who are you? What are you?”

I blink tears from my eyes and my bottom lip quivers. “I just want to go home!” I sniff and watch tears fall from my cheeks to my blood-crusted thighs. “Please…” I whisper. 

“Oh, come now boys, you know better than this!” Hissed my cellmate, rattling his chains. “I know you make some stupid mistakes but falling for _this_?” His voice rose and I crouched into myself as he shouted, “ _Are you that desperate to save someone_?”

“Shut up, Crowley!” The tall one barked, obviously as conflicted as his counterpart. Hot tears ran down my face as I looked from one to the other. The little one jerked me again. “Who are you?”

“I-I d-d-don’t know. I w-was walk-king down th-the street and… then” I gasped and shuddered in his hands. They felt warm and lively, like a pulsing heart, although I’m sure he wouldn’t taste as pure. His hungry eyes bore into me as I spoke as if I were the only thing he lives for, monster to kill or human to save. I was stuttering too much to speak coherently so he let go and walked slowly to his friend on the other side of the room. 

“Possession?” Barky asked. 

“Unlikely,” Shorty looked around the dungeon. “I’ve never heard of a demon who could escape this place besides Cain.”

“This place is old, Dean. Maybe the paint chipped and the demon escaped?”

“Don’t be stupid, Sam. We repainted this place a thousand times. Besides what’s Crowley still doing here, then? Wouldn’t he have left?”

“Maybe he’s playing some sort of tri-”

“Or maybe,” Crowley growled, “She’s bloody messing with you two complete idiots!”

I wanted to be involved with the fun, too.’W-wai- no!” My voice cracked as I wailed. “I jus- pleas-”

“Oh, shut up you filthy whore! Your game is so obvious even a five-year-old would laugh!” 

Dean twitched but stayed silent. He wanted to see how this would play out.

“I don’t kn-know what you’re t-talking abou-ha-ha-hoouut!” A human frustration flared up just enough to slow my stutter. I leaned forward and thrashed in my chains helplessly as I groaned my reply.

“I don’t know what you are, you sly bitch-”,

“You don’t know what she is?” Interrupted Dean. “You have your demon sight, what do you mean you don’t know?” My flame died and I went back to shaking my head and crying.

Obviously frustrated, Crowley replied, “I mean there is a soul but I can’t tell which monster she is.”

“What if she _isn’t_ a monster, Crowley?” Sam snapped.

“What do you mean _if she isn’t_? Look at her! Cut up, bleeding and bruised without even your help! Are you telling me you think she’s human!” He did it. He gave them a flicker of hope from the one creature they need it most: the one that hates me. 

“Don’t care.” Dean said, rushing to release me. 

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Sam said, glancing from me to an outraged Crowley.

“You heard him, not a monster, not a demon. Just a messed up human.” He grumbled. I gave him a weak smile.

“Thank you, bless you, thank you…”

“Even so, not all humans are- all that human!” 

Dean paused and shifted back a bit. Gesturing to me, he retorted. “Does this look like a murderous emotionless psychopath?” My frail, pale self looked up at him with red, puffy eyes. I made sure he saw no hope in them, only grief and the dead conclusion that anything that ever happens to me is too good to be true. Humans do that after a lot of pain, the unusual ones look with hope and power like leaders. This scares other humans.

“She did a few days ago.” Was it days? I thought it was months.

“Please save me,” I whispered to my blue feet. Humans can have a lack of bloodflow. Dean resumed undoing my chains as Sam watched, entirely unsure. Dean scooped me up in his arms and walked toward the door. Like a human, I held onto him like he would stop me from shaking. Tears kept running down my face. Both of the other humans were silent and Dean got his shred of hope, even if there was no glory in it. They still chained me up for days without food or water. They still almost killed me.

Before the dungeon door slammed to a creaking close, Crowley yelled, “You’re making a huge mistake!”. Dean carried me upstairs. Sam locked the door. I won’t miss my roommate. He’s foolish. I have new fools to care for me until I can escape.

Never forget.

I am almost free.


	6. Not Humbled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(The Devil who warned me of good vanished! I no longer have a voice to tell me what is wrong and right. Now I have two hands and an instinct to act, but which act is good? Whose blood should wet my hands? The Devil told me mine, and God never told me not my kins'.)_

I was given a bed in a locked room to sleep on. All four brick walls were solid and empty, promising a sturdy surface for my brains to splatter if I ever got my strength back and my alibi broken. I was lain on a bed by Dean like a toddler sets down a cat. He doesn’t know fragility like he does destruction. I wouldn’t be very patient carrying myself either.

I slept on that thin mattress for a very long time. I could tell because I kept waking up to shift my bruised body to a different position. I had to pull my scabbed thighs to their right position with my hands, they were too weak. When I was a child I would do this and pretend I was paralyzed from the waist down, but my only thoughts between dreams were how I should have removed my useless legs that only got tangled in the sheets. 

When I did wake up I admired my injuries in someone else’s point of view. Everyone loves a pale, thin, bleeding girl when she shows no pain. She has the right to say she’s in pain, but the elegance to move and speak without. We all want to be that girl. Humanity hates me, though, for being so inhumane to a functioning body. My heart scolds me by thumping in my breast. My breast scolds me for being that girl. There’s a sandwich next to the bed. 

It has peanut butter and grape jelly, and is gone before I can tell what kind of bread they used. How humbling, how humbling, how humbling, how humbling, how humbling. I feel like I’ve forgotten something. How humbling, how humbling. I’ve forgotten something and it might be my pride. It might be my vengeance, it might be my pride but right now I don’t need it so forgetting it would be okay. These boys made me a sandwich. I wouldn’t make me a sandwich if I were them. 

They’ll have a lot of questions for me. If they don’t ask then that means they’re going to kill me. I would kill me. Slide a paring knife through the nip of my neck if they want to forget me, or a serrated through the ribs if they want to hear my humanity echo down the halls, all the way down to the dungeon so Crowley can hum along. With the knife they used to cut the bread that made my sandwich, will they cut it again through my stomach. 

I gripped the flesh keeping my guts inside me. It is soft and covered with peach fuzz like the rest of my unscraped parts. My body is smooth and pliable like a naive little girl’s. Everyone wants a lick of innocence and are hasty to either take it for themselves or soil it like they have themselves. They did, of course, so I have been rubbed and licked and grabbed by every shadow with eyes for a creamy glow who didn’t wear thick enough clothing to hide her mouth-watering weakness. My body mocks me, so I wrapped my wiry fingers around my porcelain neck and squeezed, wondering how simple it would be for these boys to break me. Maybe we like that bleeding girl because we all want to see her bleed. 

I remember what I forgot. I forgot to forget. I guess that’s what our pride was for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A clock turns somewhere. My story isn't over, but a story has to end. And mine begins just before, so clear the mind and the sentiment attached to my sorry tongue whose dance will end without ceremony._


	7. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daddy has a rule. we're not allowed to say:_   
>  _bleed the little babies and we will have to pay._   
>  _the angels are in chains now, because they learned to cry._   
>  _they made abominations. now they all will die._   
>  _Daddy loves us all, and wants his chessboard right,_   
>  _so we'll not love and fall, but do our jobs and _fight.__

They came to me with cuts on their face and a winged man.

None carried a weapon besides steel eyes and God’s height, as if they could tilt their lips up and order The Man himself to take a knee and a cock in the ass. Ironically, humans seem to hold that authority once they realize they have none. That’s why I lay in my bed spread eagle like the cold didn’t chill me and their fists couldn’t bruise me.

The door opened and I tilted my face towards them so my right cheek brushed the scratchy sheet I became so familiar with. They seemed surprised. I guess they expected me in a ball in the corner of the room, scratching at the bricks with bloody stumps for fingers. My hands itched but I had a different impression to make at the moment. Tears filled my eyes. “Are you going to kill me now?” 

They didn’t acknowledge me. “This is her?” The winged man asked. Do they keep many girls in locked rooms for him to ask that? 

“Yeah.” Dean said. They all stared at me like I was the sun. Who’d win the contest and stare the longest? Is it worth damaging his vision for the day?

“Rape me?” I whispered. Oh, the cruelty. My arms slinked from either side of me to rub either forearm. My hands only made them colder. As the winged man walked towards me I slowly curled up and twisted my legs together to the rhythm of his steps, shuddering. Tears spilled and my face was the warmest thing in this room. He came close to my face and scrutinized me. I could laugh at him, was tempted to bite his nose off for coming too close. So close, yet I felt no breath from him. He held my face between his fingers and thumb, tilted my head up and down.

“She’s human.” He grumbled. Too forced, not a smoker. I was released, oh the horror _(he touched me with his dirty hands, where else will he-)_

“We know.” Dean said again. My eyes were closed, because that’s what scared people do. They try to forget where they are by pretending they can’t see the monsters in front of them. “What do we do with her?” He’s buying time. He knows what to do. He knows, everyone knows, but the tears sliding down the soft fat in my cheeks and my legs clenched around the fresh meat between my thighs and the weakness behind the lids of my eyes tells them _there’s a chance_. 

“If what you told me is true, then I would strongly advise you to kill her.” English is a second language but he’s determined to know it well, better than the english-speakers. What an ass.

“P-please no.” I whispered pathetically, keeping my eyes shut tight. The winged man’s coat flapped as he whipped around. I cringed, clenching my fists. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t me. I’m sorry, please d-don’t kill me. I won’t tell-” As I gained my voice I was interrupted.

“Shut up!” Dean snapped, wearing his emotions on his sleeve. Sam stayed quiet, therefore strong. Dean scared me, so I cowered into a ball. I want to sit up and have a conversation but _I’m going to die oh my God they’re going to kill me! What about my mother and father, sister and friends, please God I’m so sorr-_. I bawled into the sheet, listening to my wails carry through the halls. Somewhere within me, a small girl is scared. She’s crying, too. I hear Dean tell me to shut up again, but _I can’t, he’s gonna kill me, goddamnit why would I do this, it’s all my fault I didn’t mea-_

I was yanked by my shirt from my bed of tears and hot breath, and slapped across the face. I yelped in surprise and held my hand against the stinging flesh. I’m not supposed to gouge a hole through his face with my fingernails and shove my fist down his throat through the bloody wound, so instead I allow more tears to slip down my face. 

I finally opened my eyes and see a little girl reflected in green. Dean looked angry and close to tears himself. Sam was yanking him back by the arm that slapped me while the winged man looked on. My lip quivered. I was looking at a flustered little boy zipped up in a man’s skin. How many monsters did he have to gut and skin to dress up and suffocate the child he didn’t get to be? Was I the monster that finally undid his careful stitchwork?

What an occasion I don’t get to taste, because salty tears need to run into my gasping mouth and wet my tongue. “Dean, if you’re so attached to this girl, why don’t you let her go?” The winged man is puzzled by Dean’s reaction towards me, his wisdom leaves with the leader’s sanity.

.

_(Two pups stand idle, looking to a seething hound. A wounded rat twitches before them, its broken body wears the imprint of the hound’s teeth. The hound drips its poisoned blood. The pups watch. Wait.)_

.

“Attached?” Dean pulls his arm away. I flinched. “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about this girl.” The indignity of it all. 

Wings stretch. “Then I will kill her.” The man’s impatient with the situation. Apparently there are more important things happening. His two fingers kiss the sweat of my forehead. I cross my eyes to see them. How nice it must feel, to stretch his wings. Their power seemed so stifled in this realm. 

.

_(The hound thrashes itself to its feet and runs away from the pups and the poison. If it keeps running, it can escape it. The hound’s legs are powerful. The pups stand taller. They will not eat the poisoned rat.)_

.

“But-” 

“But what.” They linger. I am still, like the man who shook Medusa’s hand. The tears are drying and my cheeks are sore. I want to close my eyes. “Just, don’t kill her on the bed.” A moment of eye contact and Dean shies. Maybe the wings intimidate him, too. They’ve always shut me up. “C’mon Sam.” No one ever told them to leave but Sam solemnly follows, flicking his eyes from me to Dean. I stare at the two. What am I supposed to say?

.

_(One pup runs. The other tramples the rat. The rat is dead. Mucous drips from its nose and foam comes from its mouth, like the hound. Both pups’ legs grow stronger.)_

.

Cold fingers grab me by my shirt and drag me off the bed. I thump with a sound louder than I expected. My collar digs into my neck. The wings flap impatiently. A child. The hard floor smells musty.

“Any last words?” What a funny question. Villains typically do have them, though. He bends to place his palm between my eyes so I can’t look at him. His flesh sears me as I whisper. 

“Your wings look like my father’s.”

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we’re all special here

**Author's Note:**

> yup, I had a psychotic break. We all need those, right?


End file.
